Apprentice
by oh-mother-of-darkness
Summary: The Slade thing ft. Batman
1. Chapter 1

Guard the door, Slade told him. You just have to guard the door— don't let anyone get past you. If they do, you fail. You fail, your friends die. In theory, that was easy enough.

In practice, it was going to be a little bit harder. While Slade did whatever it was he was doing in that room, Dick stood outside, ready for the attack that he was sure would come at any second. It was almost funny, if you knew the secret (Slade didn't). There was only so long you could stay inside Wayne Enterprises before a certain someone noticed you were there. Any minute now. He shouldn't have to wait much longer.

He didn't. It was almost surreal, watching it from the other side— the tiniest of movements from a patch of shadow, the smallest whisper of kevlar across the marble floor, and then he was standing under the floodlights. The Batman. Watching.

Dick felt his heart racing at the very sight of him— is this what it was like to be a villain? He was honestly terrified. Bruce was just… standing there, glaring. Waiting for an explanation? Dick fought the urge to run for the rooftops. He could do this—he _had_ to do this— for Beast Boy and Cyborg and Raven and Starfire.

Bruce finally unfroze, stepping forward. Dick saw his eyes narrow beneath his cowl as he took in Dick's new uniform, the _S_ above his heart where the _R_ usually sat, the gun strapped to his wrist. One betrayal after another, really.

"Just what," he growled, "do you think you're doing?"

"Batman," Dick muttered, so Slade would know what was happening. Maybe he would let him run. Nobody honestly expected Dick to win a fight against Batman, did they? That wasn't going to happen.

"Keep him outside," said Slade's voice in his earpiece. Great.

"You know there are easier ways to get my attention, correct?" Batman asked. "For instance, you could knock on my door. I assume you still remember where I live."

 _Oh, this is about us now?_ Of course Bruce would think that— how utterly typical. No matter how much Dick grew, he was still a kid to the damn Batman, and that's how he was treated: looking for attention, childish, immature. Well whatever, he could use that.

"That's exactly what I was going to do," he said, "but then I remembered that you took back my key, and I decided this was better." Dick twirled his staff, swinging it into a guarding position. "Turns out, everybody needs a sidekick these days. I think you started a trend."

"I don't need a sidekick."

"Yeah? Give my love to the new kid." Dick felt his blood start to boil just thinking about it. Another Robin? Really? He was gone for five minutes, and all of a sudden there was somebody else sleeping in his bed. The message was infinitely clear: Batman needed Robin, but not Dick Grayson— just whomever.

Dick wondered how the other boy— Jason— would feel when it was his turn.

Bruce moved towards the door again, jerking Dick back to the problem at hand. "Step away," he snapped. Please, please step away. He really didn't want to do this.

"No."

Fine. As Bruce came within arms distance, Dick swung his staff at his head. Bruce ducked away; for a few moments, they locked eyes, and Dick was forcibly reminded of the first time Bruce caught him sneaking out of his window. The look on his face was the same— 'I can't believe you did that.' Bruce crossed his arms.

"Robin—"

"Guess again." Dick launched himself at Bruce's chest.

It was like swinging into a brick wall— Dick felt his ankles creak on impact, protesting as they hit Batman's body armor. Bruce barely even stumbled—he was just too heavy. Dick had hundreds of sparring matches' worth of experience that told him force wouldn't be enough. He would have to think of something else.

New tactic: Dick pulled a smoke bomb from his belt and cracked it open against the floor. He heard Bruce grunt in annoyance from the center of the cloud— Dick memorized the location of the sound, shot a line through the bottom of the fog, wrapped his end around a nearby pole, and swung down with his full body weight, praying he was fast enough to catch Bruce unprepared. He heard a thud inside the smoke cloud, but then his line went slack. When the last wisps of his distraction drifted away, Batman was nowhere to be found.

Where was he? Dick backed towards the doorway, checking the corners, the ceiling, all the usual places. He should say something. That's what he usually did. _Distract him. He doesn't want to hurt you._

Then Bruce's boot slammed into his chest, knocking him straight into the wall— he bounced off the marble, face first, and landed in a jumbled pile at Batman's feet. _Never mind._

Dick scooped his staff off the floor and used it as a crutch, levering himself into a standing position. He spat the blood out of his mouth as Bruce looked down.

"Are we ready to talk about this yet?"

Dick hated the condescension in his voice. Bruce wasn't his father— at this point he wasn't even trying to be. They hadn't seen each other in months, hadn't called, hadn't spoken, hadn't met. And yet here he was, trying to be the dad again.

"Shut up!" Dick snarled, and he stabbed his staff into one of Bruce's boots with as much force as he could muster. Bruce hissed in pain as Dick rolled away, flipping, landing on his feet, running for his doorway.

"Can we go?" he muttered into his earpiece. He wasn't going to last much longer, not if Batman was really trying to win. "Please?"

"No."

Damn. Dick leaned back against the doorway, panting. He was out of ideas. Bruce watched him from across the floor, poised calmly on the balls of his feet, ready for another attack— Dick was pretty sure that if it came, he would go down.

Options? If he kept fighting, he was going to lose. What would happen after that— Arkham Asylum? No, he would probably get dragged back to the cave, locked in a room somewhere until Bruce decided he'd calmed down. Maybe they would use him as a lesson for the new kid— 'and here, Jason, is what happens when you don't obey Batman's orders.' Hell no.

And if he did lose, he failed the mission. It's not like he'd get credit for trying— as far as Slade was concerned, if Batman got through that door, the Titans were dead. Dick wasn't going to let that happen. He would do anything— literally anything— to protect his friends.

Which got him thinking. Dick pulled himself upright and held his staff out in front of him, inviting Batman forward. Bruce stepped across the marble, looking him over sympathetically.

"You okay now?"

"I can't let you past that door."

"Robin, you—"

"Back away from the door."

Bruce didn't stop— he kept walking forward. He would be in range of the staff again soon. Dick took a deep breath. _Don't make me do this._

Batman kept coming; Dick let his staff clatter to the floor. When Bruce paused in surprise, Dick pulled a knife from his belt and displayed it carefully in the pool of light.

"Back away from the door," he said, raising the knife to his own throat, "or else."

Bruce froze. He let his fists drop to his sides and stood in the pool of light, glaring at Dick and the knife in his hand.

"You're bluffing."

Dick raised his empty hand to his face and peeled away his mask, letting it fall to the floor. "Look me in the eye, and say that again."

They stared at each other. Dick felt the muscles in his wrist tense, because he was absolutely serious, he was— and Batman would know that. Dick just had to hope that Bruce still cared enough to let him go. _Leave. Please leave._

Bruce nodded slowly, turned, and began walking down the hallway, away from the door. Dick watched him go, frozen in the doorframe, not quite capable of believing it— he won.

But all he really wanted was for Bruce to come back. How many times, in the days when they were Batman and Robin, had Bruce saved him? Probably too many to count, and here Dick was, trapped in one of the worst situations he'd ever been in, and Bruce was walking away. Surely he didn't believe that all of this was over some stupid fight? Because Bruce pushed him away? He must know that there was something else.

 _You're the world's greatest detective, for gods sake. You KNOW something's wrong. FIGURE IT OUT. HELP ME._

Bruce reached the door on the far side and pushed through it without looking back. Gone. He was gone.

Dick slid down the door and wrapped himself around his knees. He swiped the tears from his eyes, grabbed his mask from the floor, and placed it back over his face.

 _Fine._

 _I don't need you anyway._


	2. Epilogue

Deep breath. Dick could do this. It wasn't the hardest thing he'd done this week, not by a long shot, but still— standing in front of the door, he could think of about a hundred places he would rather be. Thousands, probably. Dick really, really didn't want to go inside.

But he had to, so he knocked. Might as well get this over with.

There was a muffled "I'll get it!" from inside the house, and then the manor door cracked open— Dick could make out a pair of unfamiliar eyes.

"Oh," said the kid, stepping out onto the threshold. "Hi."

So that was Jason. For a few seconds, the two of them stared at each other, and Dick meant to be polite (he honestly did), but what came out was a lot closer to "Seriously?"

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Is Bruce home?"

Jason pushed open the door. "He's in the living room. I guess you know the way." He vanished down the hallway to the kitchen, and Dick continued on his own.

Bruce was sitting in his armchair, reading. Dick wondered if he'd chosen the spot for dramatic effect— that seemed like a Bruce thing to do, didn't it? Dick could just picture him settled there all day, waiting for the doorbell to ring. He must have known Dick was coming. Bruce set aside his book as Dick leaned against the doorway, trying for casual.

"Hey," he said. "Can I come in?"

Bruce nodded, so he sat down on the couch. "I just wanted to explain… about the other night."

"I know about Slade."

Oh. Dick looked down at his hands with a weird mix of relief and panic— relief because he wouldn't have to talk about it, panic because he didn't have anything else to say, and he couldn't count on Bruce to carry a conversation. What now?

The two of them sat in silence until Jason marched through the door and dropped a sheet of paper into Bruce's lap.

"I made you a list," he told him.

"Hello," Bruce read. He looked back up at Jason. "Hello?"

"Did you say it?"

"You didn't," Dick reminded him.

"Hello."

"Well there we go." Jason raised his arms in a my-work-here-is-done kind of gesture and made for the door.

Bruce looked down at the paper. "Are you okay? Of course he's okay, look at him…" He glanced behind his chair, but Jason was already gone. "You are," he asked Dick, "Aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Few bruises."

"Good."

More silence. Dick shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could leave. Maybe he should— Bruce probably wouldn't object. He couldn't possibly be any more comfortable than Dick was.

"Did I hurt you," Bruce read— not asking, Dick noticed, just reading from his list. He decided to treat it like a real question anyway. "Yes?"

Bruce looked up in surprise. "Sorry," Dick continued, "but have you seen my identical twin running around your house?"

"I really meant in the fight," muttered Bruce.

"Right, obviously." Yeah, he was leaving. Dick stood up to go, but Bruce cut him off before he could take more than a few steps.

"Wait."

Dick settled back onto the couch.

"Look I know this is hard to believe, but Jason isn't here because of what happened between the two of us. He's here for him. And—" Bruce set his discarded list on the coffee table, so Dick could clearly see "I'm sorry" written across the bottom (underlined twice). He knew Bruce wouldn't actually say it.

"And I hope you know that even though you're not… here anymore… I still want to help you whenever you need—"

Apparently that was about as far as Bruce could get, because he lapsed back into silence, fidgeting uncomfortably with his ring. Dick didn't really know how to follow that either.

"You know you're both hopeless," said a voice from the next room. "Right?"


End file.
